Author's note: I know this poem isn't quite like my usual style, but hey, even a fan of horror fiction has a heart, you know! - Doc
His daughter's gravestone was green; her favorite color in life had been pink.
The spanish moss hung over her grave like a shroud, blocking out all light.
Here, in the field of the dead, all colors fade to black.
Overshadowed by gloom, spiderwebbed by frost.
Her father daydreamed of his lovely child, so young, vibrant, full of life.
His dreams turned quickly into nightmares.
But, the dreams, good or bad, were all he had left.
Just mere memories.
He would come every Sunday, a sketchpad in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other.
He would search his dreams, memories, for pictures of her.
Then, he would use his colored pencils to sketch these pictures.
Bring her back to life.
But she was still dead.
He will come back next Sunday, to skecth new pictures.
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